


hands on

by starsystems



Series: queliot ficlets [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsystems/pseuds/starsystems
Summary: Eliot is thirsty, Quentin has nice hands, and I’m ignoring all the rules of good grammar.





	hands on

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 1. Because apparently that is where I live now.
> 
> Look, I just need a lot more Eliot POV fic about his stupid huge crush on Q. So I wrote some. This is the first fic I've written in years (excluding some drabbles) and my first fic in this fandom, which I joined only about a month ago. (good fucking timing jfc)

Sometimes it’s stupidly easy to forget, Eliot thinks. To forget that Quentin Coldwater is really, _really_ , fucking, _devastatingly hot_. Most of the time it gets buried behind all the depression and anxiety, the hunched shoulders and nervous twitching and all that fucking wide-eyed _earnestness_ of him.

And then there are times like this. Quentin is concentrating on the tuts he’s practicing, sitting cross-legged on a couch in the Cottage’s main room, hands moving, stuttering, pausing, starting again. And, shit, Eliot is transfixed.

It’s about his hands, how they are slowly getting more and more graceful in their movements, more sure and efficient, and, _goddamn_ , Eliot could watch Quentin’s hands all day. But it’s not just about the movements, it’s also about how he has his sleeves rolled to his elbows, about his surprisingly hairy forearms, his slim wrists and strong fingers and wide palms. Quentin’s hands are so solid, so fucking _masculine_ that there have been times when Eliot has gotten hard just from imagining them all over his body, _in_ his body, and shit, fuck, Eliot’s not going to get a boner in the middle of the day, in the fucking main room of the Cottage, from just watching his friend do his _homework_. He has more self-control than this.

He shifts in his seat, swallows, tries to bring some moisture back into his mouth, but can’t bring himself to look away from Quentin. He wishes Margo was there to distract him, to mock him about this. Then again, Margo is so fucking amused by all of this, all the time, and Eliot isn’t sure he has enough humor left in the situation to laugh about it anymore.

If he ever gets the chance to have those hands on him, he would probably _beg_ for it. And isn’t that just the fucking saddest thing ever? Eliot Waugh, gagging for it, for any scraps _Quentin Coldwater_ would be nice enough to toss his way.

Quentin is frowning, eyes intense, and Eliot thinks about how it would feel like to have all that fierce concentration directed towards him, thinks he needs to come up with some kind of a game plan. Because Quentin is his friend and he knows him well enough by now to know that there’s no way he’s going to react well to a casual “ _wanna fuck?_ ” request. Quentin would _absolutely_ make it weird afterwards.

Well, Quentin will probably make it weird, however Eliot approaches this. It’s kind of alarming, though, how he hasn’t yet decided if it would actually be worth it, freaking Quentin out and possibly ending their friendship over Eliot not being able to control his libido. And it’s hilarious, how that’s his problem, because Quentin’s not the best-looking guy Eliot’s ever met and definitely not the most charismatic. But... But he’s _Quentin_. And Quentin is so many things Eliot isn’t and it’s overwhelming, sometimes, how Quentin looks at Eliot, like it doesn’t matter that Eliot is... that he’s the way he is, in all his prickly, unlovable, assholeish glory. That it’s okay for Eliot to be this and that Quentin still, somehow, impossibly, likes him and wants to be around him.

Eliot just _wants him_ , _so badly_. It’s hard to breathe through it.

Quentin rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms, hands, fingers, apparently finished with his exercises. And then he glances up, spots Eliot looking and smiles at him. It’s such a warm smile, all crinkled eyes and fondness, and Eliot’s world resets. He can breathe, it’s suddenly the easiest thing in the world.

It’s just Q again, self-consciously brushing strands of hair behind his ears.

Eliot grins back.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [savethehales](https://savethehales.tumblr.com/).


End file.
